If I recognize trouble when I see it, it’s because I grew up with a huge crush on my best friend’s older brother, Luke Jones. Born with sinful good looks and enough charm to talk himself out of almost any situation, he’s always been a rebel with attitude to spare—as well as gorgeous, reckless and dangerous for good girls like me to know. Though he’s found fame, fortune and all the fan-girls with his band, Luke remains the star of all my secret fantasies.
But now, he’s back—one sizzling look is enough to set my world on fire— and he wants a favor. (From me!) Time to make the world a better place, Luke says, but I recognize half a story when I hear one. Does it really matter? I need to ditch this crush before it’s too late for me to fall in love for real and find my own happy ending. Luke doesn’t need to know that it’ll be more than a favour for me. He also won’t linger in the sleepy little town of Empire, and when Luke leaves this time, he’ll be gone forever.
The problem is that the other half of his story hooks me hard. Luke’s on a quest to right old wrongs, and making the world a better place is pretty much my theme song. Am I crazy to hope for more from the man who has only ever committed to his music? By the time I learn the whole truth, will my heart be lost forever? For once, though, I’m not going to play it safe. Win or lose, my time to seize the moment is now.
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An excerpt from Just Trouble:
I hear the motorcycle on Tuesday morning, its throaty roar echoing along Queen Street like an announcement—or a wake-up call. It’s April, one of the prettiest months in our little corner of the world. Spring is bursting out all over, welcome flashes of bright green on every corner, flowers emerging from the soil and birds chirping merrily. The tulips and daffodils are in bloom, not just in gardens but in window boxes and pots outside our offices. On this perfect spring morning, the cloudless sky is that shade of blue that looks like forever. The wind is crisp off the lake and winter seems long ago.
(It’s not.)
I’m annoyed, having had The Discussion with my father for the hundredth time, and lost right again on schedule. We don’t argue or fight, my dad and I—he just overwhelms all objections with his affability. He’s so calm, so reasonable, so sure, that I end up backing down every time.
And it bugs me.
So does the seemingly endless pile of paperwork on my desk. It’s part and parcel of dad being on retainer for Cavendish Enterprises. Seasonal foreign workers come. Seasonal foreign workers go. In every possible instance, there are forms to file, and as the most junior lawyer at Weatherby & Bradshaw, I win the grunt work.
I’ve poured myself a fresh coffee and opened the top folder when I hear the engine. The town is so quiet that the sound of the bike is jarring. I assume it’s a scout for a motorcycle club, an older grizzled guy looking for a place to congregate on Friday the thirteenth, and am not thrilled that Empire might be a candidate.
The roar gets louder. It reminds me of a certain hot guy, the one who rode his bike out of town sixteen years ago and never came back. (Of course, it does.) It makes me reconsider the wisdom of my own return to bucolic Empire. Should I have stayed in Toronto? The work was more interesting and it could be argued that my social life was, too.
I didn’t feel stalled or on the shelf either. I wasn’t bored.
I sigh without meaning to and get to work. Forms don’t fill themselves, despite my wishes to the contrary.
Against every expectation, the motorcycle stops in front of my dad’s legal office, idling for a minute before the engine stops. I make it to the window in time to catch a glimpse of a long-legged man in black striding to the door and my heart skips a beat.
No. It can’t be.
Even Mrs. Prescott sounds flustered when the door opens to the street, which is a big clue to the new arrival’s identity.
A bigger one is the low rumble of his voice, still thrilling after all these years, still evocative of melted chocolate and dissolved inhibitions. Of course, it’s familiar. I’ve listened to all of his band’s recordings, memorized more than a few, and had that smoky ballad as the ringtone on my phone for ages. I retreat behind my desk, hoping, not hoping, feeling all of fourteen years old again.
Luke Jones must have come to see my father, to get himself out of some epic trouble or other. I won’t need to even see him…
Yes, I mean the Luke Jones. You’ve heard of him, of course, and his über-famous band, those rockers who have made millions—their music is good, but they’re also sinfully photogenic, all four of them.
Well, three now. And not much of a band anymore, but that’s another story and one that isn’t my business. (My browser history isn’t yours to peruse.) I won’t be feeling sorry for Luke because he doesn’t have to wade through piles of lingerie on the stage five nights a week and clearly adore every minute of it.
It’s too easy to envision his sultry smile and bedroom eyes, smouldering looks—and that little smile, the one that steals over his lips when his dark lashes are falling, hiding his thoughts, making you think he’s remembering a private secret. A panty-melter, even virtually.
If he does that here, live and in person, my lingerie might spontaneously combust.
But I’m not the teenager who was in awe of Luke, not anymore. I’ve learned that guys like him might be easy on the eyes, they might know all the right moves, make all the right promises and have charm to spare—but in the end, the only thing they care about is themselves. They’re not potential partners. Great-looking guys say and do whatever is necessary to get whatever they want, then move on. I have the unworn wedding dress as a souvenir.
I straighten at the sound of a deep male voice in reception, proof positive that I’ve guessed right. Luke has this baritone that sounds as if it’s coming from the ocean floor and in real life, it’s rougher than in the band’s recordings. The sound works for me in a big way.
My heart skips as if I’m going to be caught in some crime. I read the top form twice without comprehending a word before Mrs. Prescott taps once then flings open the door.
“Mr. Luke Jones to see you, Miss Bradshaw.”
And there he is. He is back.
Right here.
Let me tell you that Luke’s a thousand times hotter in real life, and better looking than I remember. Man not boy now and it makes all the difference in the world. He’s taller and broader, filling the doorway and not caring a bit. He exudes presence and confidence. He owns the room before he steps fully into it—and it’s my office. He’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, his helmet under one arm and a leather satchel in the other hand. I feel as if Sin has stepped into my office to issue a personal invitation.
I’m tempted to accept.
He has what looks like a day’s growth of beard, dark and even, which makes him look like a rebel. They always said he was just trouble. He takes off his mirrored sunglasses and I see that his eyes are just as vividly blue—one Cavendish legacy he wasn’t denied—but his gaze is a lot more assessing than it used to be. His gaze sweeps over me, leaving tingles in its wake, but I step forward and offer my hand as if unaffected.
Crisp. Professional. Dispassionate.
It’s what I do. The moat is filled and the gates are closed. Always and forever. Lesson learned.
It’s when his hand closes over mine—warm, firm, a solid grip—that I notice it. It’s Luke but not Luke. Sure, he’s broader and older, and looks a bit more disgruntled than I ever remember him being. Determined, maybe. But there’s another change, something I can’t quite name. His lips are firm and drawn in a tight line right now, as if maybe he wanted to see my dad and is displeased to be forced to face the junior partner instead.
I could explain the merit of making an appointment to him, but I have no words.
He seems…wounded.
Oh.
There’s no oxygen left in my office after Mrs. Prescott shuts the door behind him, and not nearly enough space for two when one is Luke. “How about that,” Luke rumbles, sparing me a glance as he puts his helmet on my desk. “Abbie said you’d come back, but I didn’t believe it.” He’s talking about his sister and my best friend. The corner of his mouth almost lifts in a smile, one that makes me hot and cold. It’s the gleam in his eyes, the way he’s treating us like allies before I even know what he wants. I’m reminded of sleek predators—panthers maybe—who pounce on their victims before anyone even knows the hunt is on. “Don’t tell me you missed our hometown.”
“I did,” I say crisply. “Looks like you did, too.”
“Not a chance, Daph,” he says, making my name his own. I’m tempted to correct him, to tell him that everyone here calls me Ms. Bradshaw and that my friends call me Daphne, but I let it go.
For now.
What hurt him so badly? I want, against every speck of good sense I possess, to fix it.
His very presence shorts my circuits, proof positive I need to send him on his way ASAP.
“You could say I’m here for a good time, but not a long time.”
Excellent. We already agree on something.
He glances at the chair for clients and I invite him to take a seat with a gesture, then sit down behind my own desk. He pulls out a document from his portfolio. He’s watching me, but pretending not to.
I’m intrigued that he’s uncertain what I will do. I’m not the unpredictable one here.
“I may not be available for your schedule,” I say, hating how prim I sound.
Luke’s smile flashes, dazzling me for a moment. “Or you might be.” He nods at the document he’s holding. “Never take a pass on something before you’re certain what you’ll miss, Daph.”
It’s not bad advice and I have no quick answer.
I take the document.
It’s a list of addresses.
“It’s not a huge obligation, Daph. I want to buy these five properties from Cavendish Enterprises, and I need some help with both the offer and its execution…”
He’s referring to the corporation run by his father and brothers, which makes my reply automatic. “That would be a conflict of interest, as Cavendish Enterprises has Weatherby & Bradshaw on retainer.”
Luke pauses, impaling me with a very blue glance. It gives me shivers of the most excellent variety. “That’s your dad, though, right?”
“He is senior partner here since Mr. Weatherby retired.”
“What about you?” He braces an elbow on the chair and studies me. I wonder what he sees—or how much—and I don’t dare blink.
“What about me?” I repeat politely. “Cavendish Enterprises fill all of my billing hours.” I shrug, gesturing to the pile of paperwork. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Are you?” he asks under his breath and I flush, even though he isn’t expecting an answer. Luke shakes his head, still studying me, as if he can’t make sense of my presence at all. “You know, I didn’t believe Abbie. I was sure you’d have a big shiny condo in Toronto and a great job. Or maybe have a successful lawyer destined for great things by your side, and two adorable toddlers, a massive house in Lawrence Park. Maybe an even bigger one in Moore Park or Rosedale if the mister was doing well.” I’m surprised that he knows that much about Toronto real estate. “But you’re here.”
“I like it here.” I’m a little too vehement, but it’s done.
“Nobody likes it here,” Luke counters, impatient with the idea. “Anyone here just hasn’t figured out how to escape yet.” It’s a stunning condemnation of our hometown, but there’s truth in it too, enough truth to silence my objections. Empire isn’t what it was. It’s faded and become tired, a place of resignation, not of opportunity. I hate that. Luke fixes a look on me. “Did your lovesick lawyer follow you home?”
“No.” Too late I realize I should have denied the existence of said lawyer.
“You’re here, working for your dad, and indirectly for Patrick, and single, too?” He feigns surprise and I want to throw something at him. “Oh, Daph, what are we going to do to shake you free of all of this?”
“I don’t want to shake free,” I inform him coldly, disliking that he put his finger right on it. “I worked hard in high school to get accepted at the university I wanted to attend, busted my butt there, worked hard articling, then passed the exam and was invited to the bar, just to come back to Empire and do exactly this.” I tap the desk for emphasis, which is maybe a little much.
We both know it.
Luke surveys my tidy office so slowly that I become keenly aware of how small it is. It’s also due for a repaint. I hear my endless dispute with my father one more time, but it feels like a betrayal even to think about it. “Is that paperwork for foreign workers at Cavendish Enterprises?”
I nod. There’s no point in denying.
“So, with all your accolades and top marks, you’re filling in forms like a clerk.”
“Perhaps we could get to the point of your visit.” I sound frosty, but what does he expect?
He leans back and takes another slow look. “I always thought you were a bit of a puzzle, Daph, but this takes it. You’re not back here for love or money, and I don’t see any other attractions. I thought at least you’d be out on your own, building your own practice as you fought the good fight, bringing justice to all. I seem to remember you being an idealist.”
It sounds more like admiration than mockery but the truth in his words burns all the same. “It makes more sense for me to work at Weatherby & Bradshaw, and subsequently inherit a viable business,” I say, hating the sound of my father’s own argument falling from my lips. “But that’s not your concern.”
“No,” Luke agrees easily, his gaze unswerving. “It’s not. I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“There’s no need.”
“Maybe I like the challenge.”
When he looks at me so intently, it’s like he can read every thought and secret I’ve ever had. I drop my gaze to my desk, telling myself to hurry this consultation to its end. “Your father isn’t going to sell any property,” I inform him. “He likes owning as much as he does.”
There’s an understatement. Patrick Cavendish owns most of Empire and he does nothing with most of his holdings. Buildings sit empty, lacking even tenants, as they disintegrate into the ground. It makes me angry, but he just wants to own it all.
Luke starts to smile. “I think that annoys you, Daph.”
Of course, he noticed the subtext. “It doesn’t matter if it annoys me. It is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“Because you will just take over the titles of five properties? How? Private citizens don’t have the right to expropriate property from other citizens or corporations.”
“I’ll buy them.” I blink as he continues, remembering a bit late that he’s rich. “I’ve been reading the bylaws of Cavendish Enterprises and if all the board is in agreement, they can divest of properties deemed to be unnecessary.”
“You’re not on the board.”
“A detail that Patrick made sure I understood,” Luke says without the bitterness I expect. I’m trying to name what’s different. He seems resigned, maybe disappointed, or less sure that the world is his oyster.
What did happen to that bandmate of his?
Taylor. The huge blond guy with the man-bun, who played the guitar like a god. He was as radiant as the sun, and just as golden, a stark comparison to Luke’s dark good looks. They looked fabulous together on stage and were said to be great friends. It was never reported how Taylor died, just that he did, and as I look at Luke, I wonder.
He flicks a look at me, catching me, and our gazes hold for a potent moment. My throat tightens.
“You should just ask Patrick to sell them to you then,” I say.
Luke laughs and it’s not a merry sound. “I did. He refused. He wouldn’t even listen to me.”
“He’s on the board, too, and has the power to veto anything.”
He sits back, eying me, his disapproval clear. “So, you’re saying I should just give up and go away, give Patrick what he wants.”
“It’s easier.”
“Someone once told me that if you want a specific outcome, you have to be prepared to influence results,” he says grimly.
I wonder then what he has planned.
But Luke is done. He rises to his feet, shaking his head, exuding disappointment. “I’ve got to say, Daph, that I was hoping you’d at least listen, but I guess you know which side your bread is buttered on.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, bristling, even though I know.
“That I knew he owned most of the town. I didn’t think he owned everyone in it. Someone has to think Patrick isn’t all that, and I expected Abbie’s friend to be on my side. You used to be interested in what was right.” He shrugs and reaches for his helmet, not even seeing how that barb hits home. “But I was wrong. My mistake. Have a great day.” He turns away and I can’t stand it.
“Tell me,” I invite and Luke glances back.
“Why?” His eyes narrow. “Going to bill me for it?”
“Not unless it takes you an hour to explain.”
He hesitates only a moment then returns to his seat. To my surprise, Luke doesn’t launch into an explanation but sits there, tapping his fingertips on one knee. I expected him to have a smooth story prepared, that there would be patter and persuasion, but he seems to be having a hard time choosing where to start. I wait, mustering my own defenses, knowing that if he tries to charm me, my moat will be breached and my drawbridge will fall.
The gates will burn.
If he doesn’t try to charm me, I’ll once again feel like the only female on the planet who doesn’t interest him.
I remind myself that I don’t care, then he looks up suddenly again, and our gazes lock.
Caught.
“Once upon a time,” he begins in his low rough drawl. I’m surprised by his choice of beginning—but not as surprised as what he says next. “I was a dick.”
“You might still be,” I say without thinking about it, then bite my lip.
Luke grins, though, untroubled. “You sound like Abbie, or does she sound like you?”
I shrug. “I suppose you have an example to illustrate your point.”
“Brr, Daph. It’s cold in here.” He pretends to shiver and I just wait until he gives it up with a shrug.
I will not be teased.
“A good example,” Luke acknowledges then, averting his gaze. He looks uncomfortable with the confession he’s started to make, which is interesting. I never thought Luke had regrets. I thought that was his anthem, in fact. Never look back. Never apologize.
Maybe he has changed.
“The articles governing Cavendish Enterprises were drawn up when we were in high school,” he says, changing direction so abruptly that I frown.
“I remember. My dad put in a lot of hours on them.”
“And Patrick gathered everyone together, even yours truly, to walk us through the way he’d endowed his three older legitimate sons with all the power for the future. He made sure Abbie understood that she was cut out of the deal because of her gender. There was zero doubt that I was omitted because I’m not a real son.”
“You look real enough to me.”
“‘Born out of wedlock’ was Patrick’s dismissal, as if my existence had nothing to do with him.”
I nod. It doesn’t make sense to me that Patrick has had affairs whenever and wherever he chooses, but he never thinks that any children who result from those relationships are his responsibility. He doesn’t even treat them as his kids. He certainly doesn’t pay support to their mothers. Everything Luke inherited from the wealthy Cavendishes was genetic.
I realize again that he doesn’t sound resentful. “You used to be really angry about that.”
“I did. I hated him. Still do, actually, but the difference is that someone pointed out that I was acting a lot like him.” His brows rise as his gaze swivels to mine. “Ouch.”
I don’t believe it. “You?”
“Me. I was accused of taking what I wanted and not caring how much that cost anyone else.” He grimaces. “It’s not untrue, although if people voluntarily offer something and you take it, I’m not sure how much obligation you have beyond any good time you have together.”
He’s talking about fan-girls. He has to be. Ever since he confessed in an interview that he loves women and lingerie, the stage has been knee-deep in bras and panties by the end of every performance. The finale of the show is always Luke wading through the offerings to invite one female fan onto the stage. She always squeals. He always drops to one knee and sings that ballad to her, the one that made them a fortune, the one that strikes at the heart and fills your thoughts with promises of forever. It’s a great way to end a concert. Brings down the house every time.
And when that woman follows Luke off-stage, it’s no mystery what happens next.
I am not the only person who has ever fantasized about what it would be like to be that fan.
I can’t be.
I realize a bit late that he’s watching me. When I straighten, startled, he resumes. “I didn’t believe that I had anything in common with Patrick, but my friend said I needed to have more balance. I needed to take responsibility for what I’ve done, intentionally or not, and I needed to do my part to make the world a better place. He told me that I had to identify the prime mover, the incident that tipped the first domino, then fix it.”
“And that’s why you’ve come back to Empire?”
“No, I laughed at him. I thought he was crazy.” Luke’s expression hardens and he looks bleak. “And then he died,” he adds quietly, a break in his voice.
I stare at him in shock.
He clears his throat, then resumes, speaking more quickly. “And it was my fault. Then the band fell into chaos and broke up, and that was my fault. Then we lost a bunch of sponsorships.” He jabs a thumb into his chest, anger now making his eyes vividly blue. “My fault. The dominos kept falling. I knew that everything would keep going to hell unless I took his advice and fixed it.” He winces and runs a hand through his hair. “The problem was that I couldn’t figure out how to make a change, much less where to start.” He fixes me with a look. “Don’t laugh but I think my friend got impatient with Fate and took on the job himself.”
I nod, knowing he’s talking about Taylor but keeping my questions to myself for the moment. I’ll ask when he’s finished his confession.
“I ended up at this restaurant in Toronto. A friend recommended it, said the food was awesome but the neighbourhood stunk. Right on both counts. I would never have found that place on my own, but it was amazing. The incredible part, though, was that Sylvia Kincaid was working there.”
“Sylvia Kincaid? The same Sylvia who was supposed to marry your brother Mike?”
“The very same. And he’s my half-brother.”
Right. I nod at the distinction.
Sweet, pretty, spunky Sylvia. I wonder how she’s doing. At the end of high school, Sylvia just got on the bus and left town. Even though her grandmother still lives here, I haven’t caught a glimpse of her since.
Why not? Why did she leave? I always assumed she just wanted to get away, but Luke’s attitude makes me wonder if there’s more—and if he knows the story.
“I haven’t seen her since high school,” I say.
“Me neither. But that didn’t stop her. She marched up and dumped a pitcher of ice water into my lap.”
I have to fight my smile as I see the point of his story. “Because of your dickness at some previous point in time.”
He points at me in triumph. “Exactly.”
“We return to the topic at hand. Always liked Sylvia.”
He nods ruefully, unoffended. “And I treated her badly. It really didn’t have much to do with her, which is the worst part of it.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What exactly did you do to Sylvia?”
“I seduced her, of course. It’s what I used to do with every female in my proximity. I’m surprised you don’t remember that, Daph.”
I do. He never tried to get it on with me, though. I don’t say it.
Used to.
“I didn’t think you’d stopped,” I say instead.
“I have, actually, but that’s recent and irrelevant to our discussion.”
I think it’s very relevant, but take a warning from his hard glare. That subject is closed, at least for the moment. “But Sylvia was engaged to Mike then.”
“Yes. And stopped being so because of me. I’m not proud of what I did, and I won’t blame Mike for being a contributing variable to my choice. I should have known better. I should have been better, but I wasn’t. And that means I need to fix this.”
“Fix what? It’s been sixteen years.”
“She’s waiting tables, Daph.” He’s outraged by this, which makes me wonder how much exactly was between him and Sylvia. “The owner of the place calls her front-of-house, but she’s waiting tables and that’s what she’s been doing since she left.”
“Her choice,” I venture.
“She could have been married to Mike all this time!”
“Maybe she didn’t want to marry Mike.” I do a good Devil’s Advocate. Perhaps it comes with the territory.
“Or maybe I screwed up everything for them. Does Mike look happy to you? Has he had a relationship since Sylvia left? I’m pretty sure Sylvia’s departure broke Mike’s heart, and maybe it broke hers, too. I was a dick, Daph, and I’m going to own it. Don’t try to make excuses for me.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” His eyes are blazing.
“Did you plan to mess them up, or was it just collateral damage?”
“No. No! Of course not. They were happy. I was just…”
“Being a dick.”
“That’s it. There was way too much Jägermeister involved in whatever decision I made then. I was angry and feeling provocative and Sylvia had the bad luck to be in my vicinity.” Luke gets up to pace, perhaps sensing that I’m not entirely with him on this. He’s as restless as a tiger.
“How does it make you different from Patrick to meddle in other people’s lives?” I have to ask.
Luke grimaces as he pivots to face me, so intent that he could be an avenging angel.
If he was, I’d give him my soul voluntarily.
“Haven’t you ever made a mistake, Daph?” he demands, an appeal in his tone that I can’t ignore. “Haven’t you ever done anything you wish you could erase completely, or that you could have a do-over and make a different choice?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
He steps closer. “Well, what if you could fix it?”
I avert my gaze because I have this weird feeling, like I can have anything I want just for agreeing with him. It clouds my thinking in a big way. I have the urge to make a wish and I know what it would be. Does he? “How is buying five properties from your father going to fix anything?” I ask, knowing my tone is hard.
Luke holds up a finger. “That is the brilliance of the plan, the one I need your help making a reality.”
“I’m not buying a bridge in Brooklyn.”
“No, but I’m going to buy a diner,” he says, then points out the window. “That one. And you’re going to thank me for doing it.”
I follow his gesture, not understanding. Leon and Dotty’s diner has been closed for ten years. They sold the property to Patrick to fund their retirement to Florida. It’s been sitting there ever since. I’ll guess that even the cockroaches have moved on.
“You’re going to buy a diner?” I repeat.
“Yes. And Una’s house, too. And you’re going to help me.” He smiles and my panties smoulder, right on cue. “Please.”
Luke’s so determined that I wonder if he’s lost more than his friend.
I wonder if he’s lost his mind.
Please.
I’ve lost this battle before he even begins to make his case, and I have to wonder just how smart that is.
Excerpt from Just Trouble
Copyright 2025 Deborah A. Cooke
Deborah Cooke: Author 